Elusive Truths
by A.Spencer
Summary: I\'m Back! **Chapter 8 is Up** As an journalist, Callie Talbot is an outside observer of crime. Yet is it fate or chance that has swept her closer to the underworld of crime than she could have possibly imagined.
1. One

While this is not my first story with Holmes as a character, it is my first post on fanfiction.net. This was a spur of the moment project, yet I plan to continue. It is set in modern day, though it is the original Holmes, Watson, etc. Both of whom, I do not own.

Yard's Inability Punctuated by Loss of Life

_LONDON January 18- Arising from the outburst of violence that has gripped the city in recent months, Scotland Yard is expected to be reprimanded by the Home Security Office, for its lack of success in bringing the perpetrators to justice. _

_            The Yard's failure to conclude several high profile crimes; including at least 240 murders since 1989, has incited the hiring of detectives, both new and retired, to shed some light matters. Organizational problems, understaffing, and low pay are said to be contributing factors to the Metropolitan police's somewhat dubious results. _

_            Several recent murders, such as the death of Martin Sanger, a prominent philanthropist have resulted in an outcry of public concern. Yet, with five murders in the space of a week, one can't help but wonder if there is a remedy for London's diagnosis murder._

            I kneaded my brow roughly with my fingertips, inwardly cursing cliché endings and roundabout articles assigned by pompous, consumer driven newspaper editors. Signing my name to the document, a sense of finality flooded my head, accompanied by a jolt of energy.

            Then again, perhaps that energy was a result of the torrent of coffee I'd subjected my system to. As a journalist, coffee is a staple ration: convenient enough to be found on any street corner, and powerful enough to keep you awake during the most boring lecture, or the most thrilling event. Unfortunately, fate (and my boss) had rendered coffee merely a stimulant for drudging through the tedium of writing cumulative pieces, based in other's findings. 

            Cutting my internal rant mercifully short, the waiter approached, wielding the tab and a pen. I surveyed the disarray of empty cups and an unfinished pastry, sighing not only at my mindless consumption, but also at the impending bill. Bravely, I reached out to accept the consequence, all the while promising never to loose track of time in café again. 

            The waiter, clad in black, sported a goatee, which truly did not compliment his face in the slightest. As I went about checking the total for discrepancy, I followed the trajectory of the young man's gaze, which fell upon a table across the café, situated parallel to my fort of papers and cups. A middle-aged woman, with a fair complexion and flighty air sat, chatting animatedly to an equally animated waiter. Fuzz-face's eyes narrowed in what appeared to be intense concentration, but could also be construed as dislike. Perhaps it was both. My own gaze took in a relatively deserted establishment, which is not surprising, due to the lateness of the hour. A well-built young man, about the same age as my server, also focused on the table in question. 

            "Well, Miss Talbot, busy at work I see. Is writing about crime very interesting?" I looked up at the waiter's question. "Yes, it is." I replied, "Although not this, I'd much rather be writing about a specific case than Scotland Yard's blunders. It might be uplifting to actually see a crime solved."

            Check paid, Fuzz-face bid me a good night and briskly departed to the kitchen. After a moment's reflection, I looked at my papers where I had neatly printed my name at the top. Very observant of him.

            I readied to depart into the mustard, opaque cloud of London night, when I was startled by a shout.

            "Watson! Detain that man!" screamed my waiter, who was running toward the focus, where client and attendant were frozen in alarm. The sturdy gentleman, Watson, was pulled up by the command as if a marionette on strings and hurtled himself at the waiter, pinning him to the faux-wood floor.  Coffee spilled on the two men, causing both to yelp. The waiter, receiving most of the liquid on his face, was frantically pawing at his face, pushing the liquid away from his mouth: into his hair, down his neck.

            "Watson," the authoritative voice interjected, "Do not ingest any of that. The coffee beans have been ground with Laburnum seeds, which contain poisonous alkaloids. Which is what you intended to use as an extra ingredient in Mrs. Sanger's coffee, was it not?" This last remark was intended for the captive, who returned his inquistor's question with a glare and cold silence.

            "So, I'll keep him here until the Yard arrives, then, Holmes?" grunted Watson, attempting to ensure the waiter's capture.

            "Yes, that should be a great help."

            For the first time, the woman seemed to come to her senses, and now, suppressing tears, she was wringing "Fuzz-face's", excuse me, _Holmes'_, hand, as he now, somewhat uncomfortably, attempted to shake her off. 

            "Be rest assured, Madam, I would not have rested until your husbands murderer was brought to justice, nor until I was rest assured you were indeed safe."

            "Oh, thank you, Sir, thank you so much; I don't know how I'll ever be able to repay you," she whimpered in a very weak and beautiful manner. I believe I might have gagged had I not been so enthralled in the capture. 

            Now that was a story. 


	2. Two

Chapter two, as you can see, is now up. Lestrade, Watson, and Holmes are not mine, although everything else is. Enjoy and Review!

Within minutes, Officers swarmed through the café, creating a swimming mass of activity where there once was none. Elbowing through chubby, blue obstructions, I systematically progressed towards my goal. This would be my greatest literary triumph, the start of a booming career…

And thus, lost in thought, I smacked into the future star of the article forming in my head.

Perhaps he was more impressive from the floor, his height and lanky figure accentuated by my current vantage point. Still engaged in conversation with what appeared to bean inspector, the faux-waiter turned his head, and cast a sardonic, superior look toward my sprawled figure. Apparently, he recognized me as his former client, as he turned to the Inspector, "Ah, Lestrade, it would appear the associated press has already heard of your success in solving the case." By this time, I had risen, but at hearing his words, was just about knocked over again. He rotated to face me, pivoting deftly on the ball of his foot, and cocked his head a bit, as if to indicate that is iteration was, in fact, the truth. Period. 

"Excuse me, Sir, I am not an imbecile," I hissed through clenched teeth. "I saw you detain that man, and am perfectly aware that it was yo…"

"Here you are, Lestrade," My former server took on a very forward attitude, placing both hands on my shoulders and pushed me within conversation distance with Lestrade. "Allow me to introduce you to Miss Callie Talbot, of the Times. She would like to ask you a few questions about the Sanger case. I'll let you filler her in on the details, as you are the head of the operation." With that, my story nodded briskly, politely took his leave, and walked out the door into the fog. 

Resigned to my fate, I took out my notepad, and listened half-heartedly to Lestrade's uniformed outline of the investigation, though I must say he was briefed very well by…Holmes, was it? A jolt of memory startled me, and caused my hand to leap in realization, ruining my notes. He knew my name, my employer. With a perplexed glance cast at the door, I watched Holmes turn left into the dank mist.

Scotland Yard Solves Case

LONDON January 18- With the conclusion of the Martin Sanger case, Scotland Yard seems to be rectifying their spoiled record. Chief Inspector Lestrade deftly handled the case, taking appropriate action and following up on all clues left by the murderer. "We did our job," said Lestrade, "It was our train of logic which lead us to discover the identity of the murderer." The Yard…

Upon Entering, my pen was flung across the room, endangering the white walls of my apartment. I glanced at the clutter that characterized my living space, and threw up my hands; not so much at this mess, but at the one ripping chaotically through my brain. This was ludicrous. To write this garbage when none knows the truth is just beyond your grasp; that is the most hair-raising dilemma. My hands started to subconsciously braid my hair, the red tendrils catching themselves in my fingers. I refused to write this drivel anymore; or at least until I needed to foot the grocery bill. 

Curling my feet under my body, I sulkily hunched over, elbows on knees, and gave an exasperated moan to commence my reviewing of the situation. All I had to work with was a name, and the horrible drudgery of sorting through the hundreds of "Holmes'" in the metropolitan ocean of faces. Yet, in my frustrated state, I could still see light at the end of the tunnel. The man had turned left, or west, out of the café, which itself was about 100 meters away from my apartment, on the same road, Paddington Street. Therefore, I could rule out everything to the east, and narrow my search down by half a city.

I vaulted to my feet, raced to the computer, and awoke it from its slumber. Rather than typing up my rough copy of tomorrow's article, rather than being a good little employee and emailing my work to the editor, I instead searched for "Holmes", yielding a list of 20 names. Holmes, John Spencer. Holmes, William David. Holmes, Sherlock. Holmes, Anne Catherine.

At least I could rule out one. And those few who lived in the incorrect direction. This still left 14 names. Looking disgustedly down at my hands, aglow with blue electronic light, I silently cursed them for failing me in my quest. 

Ah, revelation. Could I not root out the man's occupation? Click. The glowing box spat out a discouragingly normal list of jobs. Save one. Sherlock: Occupation Unlisted, Address; 221B Baker Street.

I leant back in my chair, a self-satisfied grin morphing my face from a tired visage, to that of a Cheshire cat. Follow the White Rabbit, Alice; we shall see what is down the rabbit hole. 


	3. Three

               The following morning, I walked down the street, looking at the sky. The typical English atmosphere had dissipated; leaving behind a blue sky laced with wispy, fair paint strokes; the sun gracing my mind with rarely seen rays of light. I inhaled deeply; life is good.
    
                   A poorly placed lamppost sent me toppling to the pavement. With my attention more deliberately placed on my feet, I continued on to work.
    
                   To write, had been my dream: since I was little the thought of capturing absolute truth, and painting that picture with words as the paint, and my mind the brush.
    
                   To put it mildly: This hell-hole was my nightmare. I believe I shouldn't mind the establishment were it not for two things. First on that list was my boss, my chief executive officer, the captain of the ship, and so and so forth.
    
                   Digging my fingernails into the shoulder straps of my backpack, I slowly walked toward the threshold of the dreaded door. In large black letters, the word **NEWS EDITOR **attempted to fend me off, creating a perimeter of psychological weaponry, meant to keep out lowly journalists. I would not let this arsenal hold me back, I had one of my own; yet as I rapped confidently on the cloudy glass, it began to wane under the constant barrage of internal conflict; the contradiction of personal rule number one: never challenge the Boss.
    
                   And what do I do?
    
                   "Excuse me, Sir? I have a few questions about these stories I've been assigned, they…"
    
                   "Alright, Jack, I said I'd be there didn't I? You stupid twit, stop wasting my time, I've got better things to do. Hmm? Like what? What do ya mean 'Like What?'…" boomed a large black executive chair, who's occupant  was currently and professionally ignoring me, in the classic movie style, Chair swiveled in a position opposite the door. A unique combination of a slam and a ring signified the end of a conversation. The chair whirled around to reveal the devil in the form a heavy set, middle-aged man. His eyes dulled at the sight of me.
    
                   "Ah, Cassie…"
    
                   "Callie, sir," I interjected
    
                   "Yes, yes, whatever." He waved his hands at the unimportance of my being.     "What do you want?"
    
                   "Well, umm, Sir. I was, ah, wondering, if since I have been writing about the Yard for sometime now, that, I could, perhaps, maybe, possibly…Now I'm just saying I think I have a new story angle." So much for articulation.
    
                   Boss's eyebrows raised as his eyes narrowed. I didn't even know that to be possible. He leaned back, crossing his legs in a victorious manner. "Well, you know it's the failure of the Yard that sells, and if we don't sell papers, you're out of a job. Now why don't you run along and…"
    
                   "Sir. I don't think you truly understand my meaning. What I intended to iterate was that I have conclusive evidence that there is one other than the Yard who is helping with the overflow of cases. I believe it would be even more appealing to the customer," I emphasized customer to fulfill his consumer driven appetite, "to have news of murders solved. And even then, the identity of the hero."
    
                   He brought his thumb and forefinger to meet his bulbous chin as he tried a thinking pose. I don't believe he was truly thinking, or for that matter he truly could. But, he sensed a deal when he saw one, and what he sensed was a large cash flow. I saw my literary freedom.
    
                   "Why not," he finally hissed. "But give me the material you finished for today." I flung the papers that had been burning a hole in my bag since their birth on paper. 
    
    " And I want this new stuff by the end of next week! On my desk! At 5 o'…"
    
    The door was closed before he could finish his sentence. 
    
                   I strutted past the rows of computers, my fellow drones typing under a blanket of electric haze, the sounds of clicks and electronic humming singing the melody of my emancipation. Co-workers peeked up from their toils, to offer me a weak smile of their own, as if to say, "Bully for you, you beat the system."
    
                   In joyful triumph, I applied more pressure than necessary to the elevator button, flicking my finger in the air. The metal doors parted, and I decided the elevator wasn't quick enough to celebrate this rush I was feeling, and headed for the stairs.
    
    **** 
    
                   Hailing a cab might have been the greatest endangerment to my person thus far in my short life. But, in the end, I got to my destination of 221B Baker Street relatively unscathed, though my pocketbook was considerably lighter. 
    
                   I found myself facing a door very much like my own apartments, though I was a bit more apprehensive about knocking at this door than my boss's. But, apparently, knocking was not necessary. The door was unceremoniously opened to reveal:
    
                   "Sherlock Holmes?"
    
    He nodded in affirmation.
    
                   "My name is…"
    
                   "I am well aware of your name, Miss Talbot, we dispensed with formalities yesterday. I suppose you'll want to interview me, ask how I solved the Sanger case, et cetera?"
    
                   It was my turn to nod, "Yes, actually." I moved to retrieve my notebook and pen from the depths of my bag, when 
    
                   "No, Miss Talbot, today is not particularly convenient. And I apologize, but I do not wish to be interviewed. Credit for the case will go to Scotland Yard, so if you'll excuse me…"
    
                   The same sturdy young man from the café, poked his head from behind Holmes' shoulder, "I say, Holmes, who is this here? 'Name's John Watson. I am very please to make you're acquaintance, Miss…"
    
                   I opened my mouth, and mysteriously Holmes' voice came out, "Talbot, and she was just leaving."
    
                   "Come now, Holmes, that's no way to treat a lady." Watson pushed passed Holmes, who in return gave him an incredulous glare. Watson placed his hand on my shoulder and steered me into very bohemian surroundings.  
    
                   As soon as the three of us sat, a sharp authoritative rap cut through Watson's friendly chatter and Holmes' surveying glower.  Before either man could rise to answer the door, it was flung open. In a no nonsense manner, she shrugged off her coat, and stuck out her hand. "Pleased to make your acquaintance. I'm Anne Madison, you might be familiar with my father, Peter Madison, he's seated in…" 
    
                   "Parliament, Yes I know," declared Holmes, shaking her hand.
    
                   "Mr. Holmes, please allow me to finish my sentence. Thank you." Holmes' astonished look was priceless. This Madison girl and I must have a chat. 
    
                   Carefully, Holmes continued, "What brings you to my doorstep, Miss Madison?"
    
                   "The matter concern's my father. I believe he might be involved in some sort of illegal activity."
    
                   Watson piped up, "What sort? Murder?"
    
                   Anne looked pensive for a minute, and then answered, "More along the lines of drug smuggling, though I know that murder and the former often go hand in hand. You see, my occupation is a court stenographer, and my experience is such that I had begun to recognize the warning signs that something was amiss. "
    
                   Holmes walked to the window; the clean light illuminated his furrowed brow, molded into a perfect definition of concentration. "What we need," he said, "is an insider. One who could supply us with more data."
    
                   "I could help." I regretted the statement as soon as I said it. 
    
                   Holmes fired back in response, " I highly doubt that people running criminal operations should like to have a journalist in their midst. I was thinking more along the lines of a familiar face, someone who may not be a regular, but connected with the goings on. Perhaps, you, Miss Madison, would be the perfect candidate. Now, if you don't feel comfortable, I would underst…"
    
                   "Not feel comfortable? Ha. That's humorous. This is my father we're talking about. And what good daughter wouldn't want to help her daddy succeed? Playing daddy's little girl won't be a problem, Mr. Holmes." 
    
                   I felt shorted. This was supposed to be my story. How could I gather my information? "Then at least allow me accompany you. I need to put together a more comprehensive report than that which that bumbling idiot Lestrade doles out. Don't you even want the Yard to employ you methods? How else are these cases to be solved: You are only one man." I ended my monologue softly, and my voice settled into the silence. I took it as a wordless agreement.
    
                   Anne broke the silence. "Well, that's that. I'd better be included on every development in the case.  Anything I hear will be reported as soon as possible. If you'll excuse me, we're dealing with a particularly lengthy attempted murder case, and I must be there."
    
                   And with that, the meeting was adjourned. 


	4. Four

Thanks to everyone who reviewed, and I apologize about the format of the previous chapters. I believe the problem might have been that I wrote it at school and emailed it to my self, thus having to copy/paste from hotmail to word, and it might have screwed up the encryption. But, I altered the margins (attempted) and retyped everything. So! On with the show.

It was decided that we should reconvene in three days in Hyde Park, being a central and inconspicuous locale. So, after nights spent in restless agitation, and days passed like years of nervous paranoia, the four of us- Holmes, Watson, Anne, and myself, met at the park entrance.

We strolled at a leisurely pace down Rotten Row, which truly, is quite adverse to its name, in the summer months, anyway. While in its prime, the Row blanketed in shadow and silence, a cool green canopy curving into a dim tunnel, today, the black trees reached with malicious intent to scrape at the gray sky.  A jealous wind ripped at our clothes, trying to embezzle our warmth, or pull us apart. Nevertheless, it only drove us closer together and catalyzed our conversation to a rapid exchange. 

Anne's fiery conviction was concealed behind the dark smudges under her blue orbs, her electrifying presence hidden under a drained body; her exhausted legs stomped leadenly on the gravel path, the grinding pebbles syncopated with her speech: 

"After three days, it would be more than a bit ambitious to say that I learned much. If anything, more information has made me more ignorant!  After leaving your company, I went immediately to the courthouse, or, should I say, I tried to. As I started up the steps, I saw my mother's car. She and my sister exited, and immediately came to my side, and told me that my father was missing. He left a note, confessing that he had been ringleader of a drug ring. Still is I suppose. Imports, exports. At the moment, my mother, ha, as you might imagine, is in a bit of a state. We all are," she added softly. "Further more, Father's note asked for a withdrawal of all the savings, to sell all stocks, cash all bonds…I digress, in short, it asked for all of the families assets to be consolidated and delivered too…this address." She removed a piece of paper from her coat pocket, gloved fingers shaking as she unfolded the worn creases, indicating many re-readings. "Mr. Holmes, while I had my suspicions, I had no idea my father was in this deep. I don't think I can turn in my own father, when…if we find him."

A single tear flowing down Anne's check seared in my mind a picture of humanity; not something I had often seen in my field. Watson gently put a hand on Anne's shoulder, and tenderly eased the paper from her taught grip, giving it a wretched glance before passing it on to Holmes.

The taller man took it in his fingers, reading it with a detached, interested look that made me want to buffet him, yet I admired his ability to tuck his compassion to the side. Perhaps the compassion was what Watson was for. After several moments, his calm voice cut through the wind, " Your father is left handed, was he not?"

Anne stared incredulously at his most random of questions. "No, he was…is not. He is most defiantly right handed."

With an undulation of his shoulders, Holmes exhaled a sigh of relief. "Then your father is not the one who wrote this."

~*~*~

Our random promenade found its conclusion on a park bench, the wind sweeping off Serpentine Lake; our reflections blurred in the murky waters. 

"So Holmes," chirped Watson, "What's the plan?"

"The plan, old boy, should be as follows. Miss Madison will make her delivery. More likely than not, the true perpetrator of this crime will send one of his"

"Or her!" I piped in.

"Or HER cronies to collect it. We shall then follow them to their place of business. But first, I would like to take a look at the Madison residence, but more specifically Peter Madison's home study, as well as his chambers at Parliament. With your permission, of course, Miss Madison." He nodded in her direction. 

"Yes, of course Mr. Holmes. Anything to get this resolved." She looked stoically over the dismal horizon, her eyes unseeing. 

Holmes, in a sweep of empathy, covered her small hand with his. She snapped her head around to meet his sincere, ashen eyes. "Miss Madison, I shall do everything within my power to ensure that your father is restored to you safely, and that those who have him are brought to justice."

We departed for the Madison residence, when Holmes motioned for me to drop back. We walked side by side, and keeping his eyes on any other available point of interest, he cautioned me, " Miss Talbot, you will not write anything for your article until I deem it proper to do so, any leak of information could prove devastating to the outcome of this case."

Prepared to make a comeback, I readied my precedents for freedom of the press, but he was quick to continue. "Besides," said he. "We wouldn't want news of my sensitive side getting out. I'd be a laughing stock at the Yard."

Speculatively, I swung my head at an angle, to better observe the smile that had blossomed over his face. The two of us drowned out the wind with our laugher, and with the ice broken, we continued on. 

(A/N) I used real places in Hyde Park as the setting for this Chap. If anyone wants to see pictures, here's a good site: http://www.whywaitforever.com/london/leisureg5.asp

Please review. ~A.Spencer


	5. Five

Hello my faithful readers! Welcome to Chapter 5. Thank you for all the reviews, I've really enjoyed reading them, and they have kept me going. This coming week, I shall attempt to update more often, as school will be getting out. Holmes and Watson aren't mine, but I hope you enjoy the company of my characters Callie Talbot and Anne Madison. And so I present, Chapter 5.

            "So, where do we start," I leaned on the doorframe, my pen poised at the ready to take notes on the detective's work. 

            "Well, I'm not sure about you," said a muffled voice from below, "But I start down here." Taken aback, I gaped at Holmes, meticulously surveying every inch of the carpet, his hands gently feeling the intricately flowing patterns of lavish Turkish floor rug. Anne, Watson, and I, restricted to the narrow door frame of Peter Madison's office watched as if watching a television show, our interest piquing with each exclamation, and our dismay deepening with each stoop of Holmes' brow, which had neared a ninety degree "V" in the middle of his forehead. 

            This spectacle continued for at least half an hour, and I was tantalizing close to a nap rather than revelation. Murmuring noises of revelation, Holmes prowled the perimeter for the 11th time.

            "Ah Ha! My friends, what do you make of this!" His hand swept toward the carpet, which to everyone (but Holmes') eyes remained merely an expensive import from a country unfortunately named for a popular American dish. 

            I don't know about the rest of you," quipped Anne, "But what I make of it," she continued very seriously, "is the interesting sight of a man renowned for his brilliance crawling about like a buffoon on the floor of my father's study." I clamped my mouth shut, lips caught between my teeth in an unsuccessful attempt to conceal my grin. Holmes' glare seared through my ridiculous expression, Watson's convulsions of laughter, and Anne's bemused visage with such intensity, I believe it might have burned a hole in the wall behind us. 

            Holmes, attempting to fight down his ego and indignation tensely directed his question towards Anne: " Miss Madison." He paused, closed his eyes, and drew a short breath. "Has anyone entered this room since your father's disappearance?" 

            "No, Mr. Holmes, it is our habit not to enter father's study, because he never allowed it, ever since I was a young girl."

            Holmes' brow straightened, his composure regained, "Then I can conclude that your father has been kidnapped. It's quite obvious, really. The different shoe prints, the varying directions of the carpet fibers; There was most defiantly a struggle."

            Truth dawned, "So, then we can be positive that Madison was not in charge."

            "No, Miss Talbot, not positive, but he is no longer the prime suspect, since the only plausible explanations for a kidnapping would be by a rival drug ring, or by his inferiors over payment issues. At the moment, there is not true way to ascertain his innocence, unless there is another piece of evidence that would be of some help…" Holmes stood from his crouched position on the floor to walk toward the fireplace, regarding it with the urgency of one who is looking for what he is certain is there. His slender hand deftly brushed the charred remnants of a fire, coating his fingertips with a light black powder. Taking a handful, he blew it back into the fireplace, and the ashes floated through the rays of sunlight beaming through the window, going though the transparent paper, to reveal ink: writing. The vestiges of a fevered burning settled on the hearth, and Holmes beckoned our trio closer. His rapacious eyes darted back to the fireplace, and his hand darted out to retrieve to bits of paper. One, of stationary, the other, of newspaper clipping. Remaining of the handwritten page were a few scribbled warnings, their message clear: compliance, disgrace, kill, family, daughter, pretty thing, shame, you.

            Blackmail.

            The newspaper clipping appeared to be from the classified add, and had somehow in Madison's hurry, or his kidnappers, escaped the factual inferno. 

Help Wanted

Delivery boy to report to Warehouse C on

Long Wharf. Must be able to run cargo. Pay

Is good, but must be obedient. Job will cease

To be viable by 20 Jan. Please Call, Madison.

123-4567 

            The four of us looked at the scrap, and any doubt of Madison's innocence was blown away with the ashes.

~***~

            "Alright," boomed Watson. "There's little to do, and much time to do it in." He paused, frazzled. "Reverse that. You know what I meant." Despite the man's intelligence, Watson, I had noticed, was one governed by his heart rather than his head. Which was refreshing contrast to his friend, and many of the people I worked with. And myself. It was the day of the pick up, and it this was the day my story would be born. Assuming all went well, we would have regained Anne's father, and lost the trouble of one more criminal group plaguing the cities' streets. The journalist in me was ready to stick it out to the end, ready to share this story with the public.

Anticipating the cold, my excitement, and gloved hands, I decided I would be quite unable to take notes today. It was definitely an excursion fit for the tape recorder. Holmes had decided that mass transportation would be to obvious, as would taxi, or even arriving as a group. He would accompany Anne insofar as a block away from the Wharf, and would then proceed to trace her route on parallel roads, taking up watch in the loading dock area. Watson would be positioned in the street with his trigger finger at the ready… to punch in the number for Scotland Yard. 

            I, presently clad in all black, and feeling like a criminal myself, stole along the dank streets. "Control yourself. Do not look over your shoulder. Do not run." Footfalls resounded through the empty street. "Run!" my mind screamed. A gloved hand covered my mouth and roughly pushed me against the wall. 

"Oy, w'ats a purdy la'dy loike y'self doin' our 'ere all alone, ye never know who's goin'a go looken' for trouble 'ere abouts'." A grizzled looking workman flashed a rank, disgusting smile at my wide eyes. A hot flash of adrenaline and terror ripped electric fire down my nerves, paralyzing my body and mind. 

"I thought journalists, and you especially were ready for anything, Miss Talbot," continued the worker, his face morphing into one tempered with anxiety.

"Damn it Holmes, you're supposed to be watching Anne, not me." I pushed him away and hurried toward our designated rendez-vous point. 

" 'ave to keep an eye on both me girls, don't I's" drawled Holmes.

We crouched in the darkness, our eyes never wavering from Anne's confident figure. Before long, a large white industrial van slowly pulled up to the warehouse, and as the wheels crunched the grit and sand into the pavement, I clicked the record button on my tape recorder. The van crawled to a halt a few yards away from Anne, and a man dressed in black oozed out of the passenger side. 

"Miss Madison," he expelled in a monotone voice, "the bag, if you please. Your father has great need of these funds, and would appreciate your generous offer." Anne walked forward to complete the delivery, when a series of thumps came from the rear of the van. "Will you shut him up!" Barked monotone-man, but apparently, his cronies could not, for out of the back of the van came Peter Madison. He was beaten, his eyes swollen and bloody from abuse; hands and feet bound with plastic. 

"Father!" yelled Anne. She ran towards him ready to fight the idiot who came between her and her father, the street lamp illuminating the two in a circle of yellow light. Holmes started, taken off guard by the unexpected development. He rocked to his feet, and I closely followed, but was no match for his speed.

As we raced for the yellow circle, a crack pierced the tumult, leaving only silence as the bullet sliced through the night air.


	6. Six

 (A/N) Yes, its short, yes it's quick, and yes, it needs editing. I felt bad about leaving you all with a cliffhanger. 

With a gasp, I flung myself to the floor of my apartment, too exhausted to cry, surrendering unconditionally to the abyss that is mourning and regret.  Fighting deep misgivings, I pushed play on the tape recorder, evoking hollow voices that called to me from the echoing halls of the recent past. 

Through the crackling static that separated past from present, I could hear voices raised in argument. 

"What the hell did you have to go and shoot for? You might have killed her."

"Come off it. Who cares, we have to get out of here. The bitch didn't bring the money, and we have to keep the father."

Doors slammed, and gears shifted, the axles shrieking in protestation as the van reversed out of recording distance. Footsteps echoed, and raindrops smacked the ground as if in an executioners drum role, the downbeat accented by Holmes' fall to his knees. 

"Watson!" My eyes closed at the sound of Holmes despairing cry, a tear leaked down my face, a solitary tribute to a fallen friend. "Watson! Call an ambulance. Dear God, call an ambule…"his voice drifted into inaudible sorrow. "Anne."

The undulating hissing of silence only impressed the truth upon me with its crushing density. Recalling the definitive portrait of injustice, Holmes prostrate before Anne's lifeless body, her features taught with surprise, frozen eternally. So, too was Holmes heart. 

I remember thinking that, "she can't be dead, where is the blood, perhaps she is merely knocked out, yes, that's it…" I advanced to insure my thoughts were correct, that Holmes was mistaken. But as my footsteps advanced toward the two, his back arched defensively, and I knew it was I who was mistaken. A small red rose bloomed on her chest, marking this, her grave. Gently, he took Anne's hand in his and kissed it once before restoring it to rest on her motionless stomach, a proffered apology that would never truly be accepted, especially not by Holmes himself. 

The darkness slowly pealed back to the scenery of my gray apartment in the twilight, eyes opened at Watson's words uttered hours before, shaken, "Come now, old boy, they have to take her to the hospital. You can see her later."

"Thank you for your assurances Watson, but there is not need to sugar coat it for my sake. I take full responsibility, it was my plan, my mistake…she was my client."

Holmes and Watson walked passed me, both a wreck, the former overcome by internal demons, the latter by their residence in his friend's soul. My eyes sought Holmes' to search for answers, reasons, anything. His head slowly turned towards mine, his eyes a searing beam of hatred, clearing them of any other emotion, and ridding his mind of any other purpose than to avenge Anne's death. 

Pulling myself from the past, I looked to the window, but all I saw was a translucent reflection, a shell without purpose. The trickled down the window, an outpouring of emotion from the heavens, as down the cool glass slid the tears I could not cry.

~***~

I could not sleep, so, I wandered, thinking nothing in particular, but the burden of suppressing the events finally broke the dam of my resolve. When my mindless wanderings gave way to an ocean of thought, I found myself where the deed had been done. I pulled the tape recorder from my pocket, and brought my arm to above my ear, ready to smash it to pieces along with my future.  But then I remembered a sound, and sound that should not have been there.

Then, the clouds broke, and in the dawn the sun shone into the deepest depths of my mind, illuminating the critical clue.

To Holmes!

I made for the street, sailing upstream of the typical pedestrian current, I emerged a tousled mess from the crowd. Balancing precariously on the curb, I delicately regained my composure; the rush of discovery was tucked gently under the weight of my purpose, and hailed a cab to Baker Street.

(A/N) What is this clue that Callie has discovered? Will Holmes be able to move passed his failure? Find out in the next exciting installment ( insert "dramatic music from Sherlock Holmes with Basil Rathbone as Sherlock" here.) Ah yes, a suggestion, if you have not seen the Basil Rathbone Sherlock Movies, I highly suggest you do so.


	7. Seven

(A/N) I apologize for not updating lately, here are the latest developments, and I hope that it is a bit more uplifting than the previous two chapters. My next chapter is coming soon. Please read and review. Merci.  

~A.Spencer

A locked door proves to be quiet an obstacle, even when one has earth shattering information.  

"Holmes, stop sulking and open this door. Right now." Splinters of wood quivered with his booming response, and the force of his body slamming against the door in an effort to put more of a barrier between us.

"What are you, my mother? Go away. Let me be! Its my case, not yours."

"You sound as if you need one! Acting just like a little boy."

"What would you know about the death of a client!? All you do is write, what do you do about solving the problem. Nothing!"

That was the breaking point. I slammed both palms on the door, tears welling up at the smarting pain from the impact, both verbal and physical. "I may know nothing about a client, Holmes, but I can sympathize damn well with the death of friend." I turned, the thin carpet slightly muffling my angry stride as a stalked off for the stairs. The carpet, however, could do nothing to dampen the amplitude of my anger and grief, or the volume of my continuation: "I brought you something to solve OUR problem Holmes, or perhaps you don't take help from a writer, because what could they know about solving a problem."

"Talbot. Why didn't you say so in the first place! Come, come show me." His voice was soft, or perhaps it was the distance I had covered during my tirade, which must have been loud enough to mask the sound of the door being flung open, the wooden rectangle still swinging on its hinges, softly bumping the cheaply wallpapered walls. I didn't turn.

"What, Holmes, no apology?" At that, he drew a sharp breath. I almost grinned, visualizing him sheepishly, or as sheepish as Sherlock Holmes can be, casting his eyes at any available point, attempting to come up with something, anything, to say. With this picture in mind, I twisted dramatically to face him. But in front of me was a totally different masterpiece. Holmes' gray eyes were not the confused, darting, murky pools I had imagined, but instead were clear with realization, locked with mine. His arms flopped to his side. 

"I confess, I can not warrant any of what I said, but I can assure, none of it is true sentiment. I am a proud creature, Miss Talbot, but in this case, it is quiet evident a mea culpa is called for. Will you come in and divulge what you have learned over a cup of tea?" He stepped back to open the door, and stretched out his arm in a butler like manner.

"Holmes, you can be quite the gentleman, when you want to be."

~***~

"Those are going to kill you, you know."

Smoke particles swirled chaotically, diverted momentarily from their ascent toward the ceiling as Holmes' hand gave a waving response of agitated dismissal at my statement. "My smoking habit is no one's concern but my own, Miss Talbot, and I choose to ignore its implications. There are more important matters at hand."  Taking a drag of his cigarette, he tossed my tape recorder as if it was a baseball, and when thrown, its trajectory would determine the outcome of the came. In his hand, Holmes held both his victory and his defeat: I could only hope he would see its potential. 

"Come now Holmes, its really quite elementary, you merely have to push the button, and noise is emitted from…"

"Sarcasm does not become you Talbot." Over his shoulder he tossed me a carefully crafted angle of superiority, punctuated by his raised eyebrow and accusing gray orbs. He diverted his attention to the object resting in his hand.

"I'll get you to the spot, Holmes." I reached for the device but he tightened his grip.

"No thank you, I must listen to the entire recording. I'll not have you picking up something I cannot!" He flashed a weak smile to supplement his weak attempt at humor, and walked to the couch. Closing his eyes, he pressed the button.

Standing a few feet away, arms folded, I watched Holmes for the short duration, as he turned up the volume, scrutinizing every sound, and he did not flinch until the tape waned into unrecorded static. His face brightened with intrigue, and he beckoned to me. "Tell me Talbot, what do you make of this?"

Preparing my report, I straightened, "When reviewing the tape, well, actually, after pondering for quiet some time, and walking all night, and…" I held up a hand at Holmes mouth opening in annoyance. "I digress. I noticed that at the particular moment that you were beside Anne's…body, that there was the echo of footsteps. Now, if the van had already vacated the premises, and neither you nor I were moving that that point, that leads to the fact that there were others there. At least one."

"Three." Contributed Holmes. " It was a few steps before two of them got their strides in sync, then the third followed. Continue."

"I also detected some sort of speech, though, it did not sound like English. I'm not quite sure what it was, do you know what I'm talking about, Holmes?'

The man leaned back, fingertips lightly touching, his steepled hands resting lightly against his mouth. "Yes, I do. I believe the word you heard were something like "bok" and "sus". Am I right." I nodded in affirmation. "Then our unseen friends are Turkish, or at least know the language. I shall have to take this tape to a friend of mine to be analyzed further. He's quite a character; you may find it amusing to come along. Hmm, yes, that might be it... Or, it could be…"

Too late, I had lost him. He was thinking now.

"Holmes."

No answer.

"Sherlock!"

Obviously no one's home.

"Mother!" 

Holmes looked up, startled, and ironically enough, he answered the last inquiry. "Yes?"

"What do…" I tested the words on my tongue, " 'bok' and 'sus' mean?"

"Oh. Those would be Turkish curses, sus being the equivalent of 'shut up' and bok meaning, well, how can I say this politely, I don't suppose I can…" He leaned over and whispered a curse in English, which really isn't so bad, but has the equivalent of fecal matter. Besides, Holmes cursing? It was just too amusing.

Holmes abandoned me to my silent laughter as he returned to his shroud of reason.

"Ah ha! There's a poser! Talbot, remember the Turkish rug in Madison's study? This could implicate that there are larger forces at work. Much larger that a London drug ring. But it is too early to make conjectures. Come, we have much to discover." Holmes leapt to his feet and made for the door. I almost followed him, but he skidded to a stop, riding the floor rug a few feet until it bunched by the wall. He flung a small black object at me. "Get a new tape, Talbot, we may have some use of this in the near future." I shook my head, shoulders shaking in silent laugher as Holmes firmly planted both hands on my shoulders and guided me, forcefully, might I add, to the door. Thankfully, I opened it before he could try to ram me through it. A convenient surprise awaited us on the other side.

"Good gracious, what's going on?" bumbled Watson, his eyes growing wide as we hurried past him.

"Come on Watson, you're out of the loop, we'll catch you up in the taxi," Holmes stated as he grabbed Watson's sleeve, and dragging him along. "Good Lord, the both of you are so sluggish, can you not see that the game is afoot!" At the verbalism, I attempted to glare at Holmes.

"Sus, Holmes, I grow tired of you coining that phrase as your own. You're not fooling anyone, you know: Everyone knows it's from Shakespeare." 


	8. Eight

            A yellow cab materialized at the curb, vibrating with anticipation of the race, only to be ignored. Holmes looked pointedly above the vehicle, his hand raised nonchalantly to hail another. I made for the door, my hand centimeters away from the city stained door, when Watson tapped my shoulder lightly, shaking his head. This cabby- the second to be rejected by Holmes in a period of three minutes - wore a face distorted in an abstract medley of confusion and anger.  In the manner of a wasp, the yellow automobile buzzed off, stinging my face with a cloud of exhaust, and ears with a string of profanity meticulously perfected by his many years in the business. As is the norm in a metropolis, one indistinguishable cab was instantaneously replaced by another, magnetically drawn to the curb in search of a naïve passenger and funds.

            Unfortunately for our intrepid driver, such a quarry was not to be found.  Holmes bent his tall figure to come to eye level with man, sitting in his driver's seat as though it were a stinking, pleather throne, yet a throne nonetheless. I watched the detective take in the coating of soda bottles, sandwich wrappers, and cigarette butts that concealed fabric that was undoubtedly comprised more of dirt and dust than fiber; and before the "king" could belch, "Oy, where yous awll 'eaded s'morning, mista?", Holmes, silenced him, holding up his hand. 

            "My good sir, we are headed in the direction of Moor Street. I trust you will be able to get us there without the requisite making of circles, or confusion as to our destination. I know for a fact that it takes fifteen minutes to arrive from point A to point B…"

Moor Street? In SoHo? I blinked in surprise.  Childhood memories of my father coming back from a night in that part of Town surfaced. I remember asking him where he went, and his reply was always the same, "Lets just say, my dear, * hic * its not someplace I'd take your mother."  

Holmes straightened, and omniscient smile graced his lips as he jovially patted the lip of the lowered window. "Very good. Drive on Sir." His Majesty's beer belly rippled as in a huff, he hunkered over the wheel, revving the engine to combust some of his annoyance. Internally, I groaned at the prospect of a Pod Race through the streets of London.

Watson, apparently acclaimed to the whole ordeal, politely opened the door.  I flashed him my most gracious smile, and before Holmes could admonish me for "wasting time" I clambered in. Apparently though, Watson could not escape rebuke.

"Come now, Watson, there isn't a moment to lose! Good God, man, the woman can open the door for herself. She is an emancipated female of the twenty first century."

This insult upon Watson's good manners ruffled my feathers a bit. "Holmes, John is not the one who made us wait for two cabs to pass us by. What are you, paranoid?" I fixed him with my best you-just-try-deny-it glower, and deliberately crossed my arms. 

            Damn it all, Holmes didn't even dignify my argument with an annoyed tone. "Miss Talbot, It appears I am the only one with to look out for our safety. It is a rule of mine to take the third cab. You never know who could be watching," he dictated, as if lecturing a three year old.

            "Come now, Talbot. He said it himself; you are a fully emancipated women of the twenty first century. Defend your self!" I simmered internally, my temper threatening to quickly come to a boil. "You are quite right, Mr. Holmes." Both Watson and Holmes looked as though they had been smacked across the face. Well, that's not true. Watson looked as thought he'd been kissed by a perfect stranger, and Holmes quirkily raised one eyebrow as his jaw dropped slightly. "But," I continued, "your logic is flawed."

            And there you have it, worse than a blow to Sherlock Holmes manhood was an insult to his pride, his joy,

            "MY logic?" he gasped.

            Oh, this is too good to let go, I thought. "No, Voltaire's. Of course yours! If someone is always watching, possibly rigging a cab or cabby for the soul intent of doing you or us in, don't you think they'd watch to see which cab you get into? Plus, an odd habit like that, waving off two cabs only to get into third. Honestly, Holmes, you might as well send up a flare." 

            The rest of the cab ride, I was the only person who seemed in decent spirits. Watson was in a silent state of shock immediately to my left; Holmes face was fixed in a portrait of brooding fury, and adamantly refused to look at anything within a one foot radius of my person, and the cabby, who was still muttering obscenities under his breath from Holmes' subtle admonishment.

~***~

            I suppose no one ever told the vendors in SoHo that there is such a thing as too much neon. Everywhere were hot red and psychedelic blue advertisements of alcohol and sex, pushers sliding their shaking hands into pockets, preparing for their nightly barrage of crazed customers. I linked my arm through Watson's muscular one, trying to look "taken". I risked a glance at Holmes, his face glowing in the multicolored sun of the nighttime scene. It was odd, but he looked as though he belonged to this different walk of life, and it wasn't a facet I was particularly taken with.  My natural instincts took over: I whipped out my writing pad and a pen, capturing the scene with my own familiar language.

            "Stupid Girl." A long fingered hand snatched the while paper from my hand, squeezing it until it resembled an hourglass, and finally transferring destruction duty to a foot, grinding my notes into the gritty damp pavement. Aghast, I looked into Holmes' demonic face, his arm risen within striking distance. I flinched and made to cover my head, but no blow came. Instead, I was flung across the sidewalk, straight into the grimy brick wall of a seedy dance club. The street before me became a swirl of black punctuated by unnatural color, as Holmes voice rang in my head and his breath stung my ear: 

"Under no circumstances are you to draw attention to yourself. What the hell were you thinking. Writing? You could be a particularly idiotic police detective. No more 'journalist' slips, my dear. You don't need to be here, and I certainly don't need you here. Keep it in mind." 

I swiped a hand over my face, nodding in an incoherent manner. I groped for support, preferably a human and not Holmes. Fortunately, Watson was at my side in an instant whispering words of consolation and assuring me of Holmes' noble character. I declined any offer my mind made to look at this man. All right. So I had picked up on the fact he wanted to be inconspicuous. I could also deal with the fact he wanted to do a little role-playing; but that was no excuse for treating me in such a manner. 

Once more, Sherlock's voice rudely interrupted my thoughts, "Miss Talbot, I suggest we continue to my contact's rooms. He will have some costumes available that will allow us all to look a bit more in place, shall we say." I thought I could hear a timbre of apologetic sentiments in his phrase. Thought it was most likely my addled imagination. 

~***~

"Dourif!" By this time, I had figured out that Holmes' relations with this "contact" were more than a little unstable. I'm not sure what gave me this feeling, it might have been a culmination of the threats being flung from the other side of a closed door, and the fact the three of us had been waiting in the upper corridor of this strip club for the better part of an hour. But hey, its just intuition. 

"Dourif, I swear, if you don't open this door, I'll get you evicted for tax evasion."

"Idle threat, Holmes! You have no proof." A sickening, pitiful voice squeaked in an American accent.

"You think that, Dourif, if it gives you consolation. But I do have my connections…just a thought. If you're really so sure you can't be bothered with company, I have a few extra hours, I'll just pop on down to the Yard and…"

The door opened a crack accompanied by the sharp clang a metal chain-lock being stretched by the sudden force of the opening. Half of a shrunken face appeared, glowing in a deadly pallor, the rest concealed by dingy shadow. 

"Yes, Nice to see you too, Dourif, now," Holmes tapped the chain with one finger, " Now, If you don't mind, I would like to sit down, frightfully cold out here." 

Dourif's face disappeared into the shadows, seeming eclipsed by fear.  The chain knocked against the doorframe, prompting Watson to give it a slight push. It opened to reveal a dark cramped passage, Dourif's small figure scampering away from the light of the hallway.  Holmes purposefully strode after the retreating man, like a hawk coming in for the kill. Watson, ever the gentleman, so magnanimously motioned for me to enter first into the uncharted waters. I pulled all my limbs close to myself, as I had always been a bit uncomfortable in new places, and this one was dark, cramped, and dirty to boot.

"Excuse me, Sir," said Watson, "But would it be too much trouble to get some light." In an agitated manner, the mousy humanoid scampered to the kitchen and flicked on a light, causing no great difference, only affording our company a glow. "Close the door," he hissed. Once this was complied with, the four of us all gathered in the "sitting area", though there wasn't much room for sitting. In the dim  glow, I could make out layers and layers of scattered paper, the same shade of white as our host's skin. Dourif suddenly seemed to notice his other two guests, and he nodded briefly at Watson, then set his smile on me. Was he missing teeth?

"Lovely chair for the lovely lady," He did doubled over in a bow, his hands extended toward an over stuffed armchair, with springs protruding at odd angles, and stained with a substance I didn't care to identify.  I gave a try at a smile, but apparently, it didn't work, as Dourif's slimy grin morphed into an open grimace of disgust, his two huge lips curled downwards as if pulled by hooks. He wrung his hands, once more turning to Watson and Holmes. 

"What do you want." He stated it simply, but there was distrust in every syllable. 

"We were merely wonder if you could provide us with attire appropriate for this sector," said Watson. Holmes rolled his eyes, both at Dourif's ignorant silence and Watson's verbiage, I believe.

"We need clothes," said Holmes. Inwardly, I smiled. That was the first simple sentence I had heard from his mouth in…well, our entire acquaintance. Dourif let out a wispy sigh of relief.

"We also need information," pressed Holmes. Wow, the man was on a role. At this declaration, our host's face fell, and he fell backwards, gripping for the wall. "Come on, man, get a hold of yourself," grumbled Watson, as he threw (gently) the man onto his paper laden couch. Watson, at this point, was quite fed up with Dourif, the lack of light, and his lack of dinner. 

"Don't hurt me, Mr. Holmes!" the pitiful creature contracted into a fetal position, sniveling.

"You imbecile, I have never hurt you, not in fifteen years…"

"You cut me once."

"What?"

"You cut me."

"Dourif. It was a paper cut. You had the profile, I needed to see it quickly. It was all an accident. Don't be dense." 

"What do you want now."

"I need your records on all cargo deliveries…"

"Holmes, that's thousands!"

"Let me finish. As I was saying, all cargo deliveries that can be traced at some point to Turkey."

"Don't you have anything more specific?"

"I do. But do you really need to know it, Dourif?"

"No. Suppose not. Right then." Dourif scuttled off to a corner of his hell hole, looking over his shoulder every once and a while. He returned with a nest of papers flowing from his hands. "Here you are Holmes."

He leafed through the papers, though God knows how he could read in this light, or lack thereof.  He looked up, and smiled briefly. "This will be very helpful. Thank you Dourif. Now, about those clothes…"

"Yes, sir, of course. You know, I could get you or the gentleman and escort if you like…"

"No Dourif, just the clothes." 

"Yes, 'course."

When we were relieved of Dourif's company, I finally felt as though a constricting agent had been lifted from my vocal cords. "So, what have you deduced, Holmes," I scoffed. Looking for support, I looked to Watson for a humorous twinkle, only to see he was staring at Holmes intently, waiting for a conclusion. I had only been kidding, Jeez!

"That, my friends, I shall tell you when we leave this scum hole. Here, even the walls have ears." He stopped at the sound of scuffling footfalls.

"A pretty dress for the pretty lady."

~***~

            "Holmes! I feel like…I look like…a…." 

            "A prostitute? Yes, that was the general idea, Talbot. Quite fashionable, nowadays, actually." He tossed a smug look over his shoulder. I caught it, but decided to let it alone. This whole situation was ridiculous. Holmes and Watson, dressed in baggy jeans, the former donning a tight black tee-shirt, the former a white, looked quite, well, ghetto. I supposed they had too, as we were headed into a nightclub in SoHo. If I were in any other outfit, I'd be laughing. Dressed as I was in a tiny red sequence dress that belonged in 1985, with a really, REALLY low neckline: no, nonexistent. I still hadn't figured out the reason for the spaghetti straps, they did nothing at all! To top it all off, I was traipsing around in platform knee-high, white leather boots. Me. Frumpy, Writer, Artsy, Callie Talbot. Now I could add prostitute impersonator to the list. Loverly. 

The techno beat could be felt through the pavement as we approached the club. It was assimilated to my racing heart beat, but it sounded like a marching band on crack. A(nother) neon sign heralded the establishment's name: Club of Class, although in "class", the C L was burnt out. We stepped out of the seedy street into a seedy club. The only change was a sea of people, what did they call it…

"Raving." 

"What?" I sputtered.

"Raving. Do you know how?" questioned Holmes, looking for something, or someone in the oceanic mass of humanity. 

"No, of course not, I…"

"Well, you're going to learn now." He took my hand, and we dove in. I just let him keep on running, as I would be totally lost if I did let go of his hand. So, resignedly, I prepared myself for this near impossible ordeal. He lead me to a back corner of the club, the furthest extremity that the strobe lights still spared their piercing glare.  For a moment, I stood there, struck dumb. 

"Dance," Holmes hissed, as he moved to the music (can that be called music?), mimicking our neighbors. I followed his lead, and eventually, it became more natural, almost fun. I lifted my head to look at Holmes, and while his eyes were on me, I could tell he was somewhere else. I moved in a little closer. 

"Holmes."

"Yes, Callie."

"What are you listening too."

"The music, of course."

"Cut the bull, Holmes." In a sudden moment, he caught hold of my hand, and in a more traditional dance move, he twirled me until our extended arms snapped us together. 

"Two people behind us. On my right. Match voices on tape. Speaking discussing failed attempt. Mentioned something concerning KADEK affaires." He resumed his original distance. KADEK? The Turkish Terrorist group? I had done research on the subject when I was in college…excellent, something I was knowledgable about. I almost squealed I could finally help Holmes. Contribute to the case! 

Then it hit me. They're right there. They are two people behind us. On Holmes' right. The people who killed Anne Madison. The people who still had her father…probably, who knew for sure. And dammit, what was I doing? Dancing.

"Holmes, what are we going to do?" I looked to his face, portraying no emotion as if in a drug induced stupor. Only his eyes portrayed his sadness, and I knew his answer. Nothing.


End file.
